SOME people are naturally good at running.

You’ve probably seen them out and about, they’re tall, slim, have legs up to their armpits and seem to be floating rather than running along the pavement.

But unfortunately for me I am the complete opposite.

I’m suited to rugby, football, sprinting and eating and I’m therefore more likely to bloat than float when it comes to jogging.

It is therefore sometimes quite frustrating when confronted with a high quality runner who is making what you’re struggling to achieve look incredibly simple.

The only saving grace is that the running ability of these people is not matched by their tastes in fashion.

And they can be often be seen parading in horrific shorts which appear to have been painted on.

Now no matter how fast or slim I may one day become I can safely say I would never be seen dead in such disastrous attire.

But while my shorts may be a bit baggier there’s also more chance to see them as running is something that doesn’t come at all easily to me.

Most of my runs are something of a struggle but even by my own standards one of longer efforts last week was a spectacular fail.

Everything seemed to be going OK quite early on but in my reaching my turning back round target I ended up heading in to Shoebury.

Soon after that I began to feel slightly unwell and it became apparent that I was about to be sick.

It wasn’t my finest hour and with my hands on my knees in the perfect spewing position a bus pulled up nearby.

And just as I thought the situation couldn’t get much worse, one of the passengers getting off said rather too loudly – “Oh look, there’s Chris Phillips from the Echo.”

At this point, my face was so red it could’ve stopped traffic but the nightmare didn’t stop there.

For after wondering where the carrots had come from, I was soon lost in Shoebury and ended up adding an unscheduled extra two miles to my run.

That caused incredible pain and slowed me down to the point where I suffered my first sulk of my training schedule as I sat on the sea-front questioning my sanity and running ability.

From there I very slowly struggled back to mine where the sulking continued.

I sent the usual texts to those closest to me saying there was no way I could complete a marathon and threw my running shoes across my flat in disgust.

But it was then I started to notice a disgusting smell.

For once it wasn’t me or my aftershave and it became apparent I had run through some dog poo.

This, perhaps quite bizarrely, improved my mood and made me realise I had endured a shocking run which immediately needed to be forgotten.

I also realised that nothing would ever be that bad again – unless of course I also start to copy the fashion styles of the far faster runners!

>CHRIS is running the London Marathon to raise money for Havens Hospices.

To sponsor him visit